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Our physical connection is intense, and whenever I regain control over my own thoughts after we’ve been together, I wonder if it might betoointense. What if that’s all there is to our relationship? We have hot, swinging-from-the-chandelier sex. We fight, we fuck, we make up.
Relationships need more than a physical connection to survive. We need shared values, a shared vision for our life together. We need to figure out who cooks and who cleans. Where we want to live.Howwe want to live.
Twenty-five years ago, Sebastian wanted me to give up my dreams to be his wife. He wanted to keep me in Clare despite all the plans for college and business I’d shared with him. What if he still feels that way? The gallery is a fun little project, but eventually, he’ll decide he wants to be the man of the house. We’ll clash heads, we’ll have sex, we’ll calm down.
What happened with Cameron will happen over, and over, and over again.
One day, sex won’t be enough. When he wants me to be a good little wife for him, when he wants to go back to Texas, when he wants me to give up one of my projects to be with him… What then?
Am I being a fool to fall for him?
“Hey.” He curls his body around mine. “That mind of yours is spinning out of control. What’s wrong, Sweet Peach?”
Warm arms curl around me, keeping me safe and sleepy. His breath ghosts over my cheek, the remnants of our pleasure draped over us like a blanket.
I like this. Ilovethis. The intimacy of our connection, these quiet moments when the world doesn’t intrude. But is it enough?
The doorbell rings, then rings again. Then it starts ringing nonstop, like a little kid is mashing it right before they take off at a sprint while giggling the whole while.
Sebastian freezes, then swears. “What day is today?”
“Um, Saturday?”
He swears again. “I forgot.”
“Forgot what?”
“Da-ad! We’re here!” a female voice calls out from downstairs. Feet stomp on the floorboards, and a male voice murmurs too low for me to make out words.
My eyes grow wide. I twist my head around to see Sebastian lever himself off the bed, tugging on a crumpled pair of jeans without bothering with underwear. He pulls a T-shirt from the laundry hamper, opens the door, and calls out, “I’ll be right down, Bug!”
Clawing the comforter up over my breasts, I gape at the man across the room from me. He ducks into the bathroom and finger-combs his hair, then grabs his toothbrush.
“Sebastian,” I hiss. “Is that your kid?”
Brushing his teeth, he glances over. “Yeah,” he says around the toothpaste. “She’s going to be in town for a week before grad school starts.”
My brain short-circuits. Grad school? How old is she?
See, this is exactly what I mean—I should know these things. Sebastian and I have been so busy tearing each other’s clothes off that we don’t even know basic facts about each other’s lives. I knew he had kids, but we’d never talked about how many or how old. I didn’t even know his child was a daughter, let alone one that was old enough to have a bachelor’s degree already.
“You didn’t think this was a good thing to tell me before inviting me to sleep over?” I say, sounding as snippy as I feel.
He spits, then wipes his mouth. “I forgot, Georgia. I’m sorry. I’ll go talk to Christine. Just come down when you’re ready.” Striding to the bed, he plants a kiss on my forehead so hard I flop back onto the pillows, then leaves the room.
I stare at the closed door, then hurl a pillow at it in frustration. It doesn’t help.
The mirror in the bathroom tells me I look like a fright, so I decide to take a shower. When I’m clean and dressed, with my hair braided back and my makeup touched up from the compact I keep in my purse, I know I have no more excuses. Meeting Sebastian’s daughter when I’m wearing day-old clothes that have been put on and removed three—no, four—times isn’t exactly ideal, but here we are.
Tentatively, I walk downstairs. The front door looms ahead of me, and I briefly consider just ducking out without facing anyone.
But that would be cowardly and ridiculous—and I’m neither of those things.
With a deep breath, I work a smile onto my face and turn in the opposite direction, toward the voices I hear in the kitchen.
“You should have seen this motel, Dad. It was disgusting. The carpet was brown, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t supposed to be. You’d think it was some pattern from the seventies, but the longer I looked, the more I realized it was just grime.”
“Stop it, Christine,” Sebastian’s deep rumble replies. “I don’t want to hear any more.”
